


Eggs and Sausages

by GuenVanHelsing



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint really just wants to eat his breakfast, magical mystical easter egg at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint just really wanted to eat his breakfast and be on his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggs and Sausages

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Rachel.

It was really not Clint Barton’s day. He had woken to a blaring foghorn, fallen out of bed, and had landed on his bow, which wasn’t the softest thing in the world. The lighthouse cupboards were bare, and the lighthouse keeper had stared at him in shock as the agent dug through his kitchen, only noticing the old man gaping at him when he found the lonely box of granola bars in the dusty corner of the cupboard, expiration date a few weeks off.

                “Don’t you keep any food in here?” asked Clint, and shoved two of the granola bars into his pockets. No reason to steal _all_ of the man’s food.

                “Don’t you people ever knock?” complained the lighthouse keeper in a wavery voice, and stepped forward, a gun at his back and a blank-eyed man with a _metal arm_ holding the gun steady.

                “Jesus fuck Christ,” said Clint, and dropped the box of granola bars.

                “I’d wash your mouth out with soap if you were my son,” said the lighthouse keeper, and the dark-haired man with the gun pushed him forward, and Clint caught the old man’s arm, pulling him behind him. No reason to let the geezer take a hit if Clint could keep him clear. Civilian and all that.

                “Who the hell are you?” asked Clint, and the man with the gun stared at him, silent. Too silent, for too long, and Clint was having a _really_ bad morning. “Look, I’m just here to meet my partner. I didn’t want any trouble, and I wasn’t expecting any visitors-“

                “ _You_ weren’t expecting any visitors‽” snorted the lighthouse keeper, and Clint ignored him.

                “-so I appreciate the welcoming committee but the world just went to hell in a hand basket and I really don’t have _time_ for this,” Clint finished, fingers twitching for arrows, his bow, a knife, anything to use as a weapon. The dark-haired man was too still, too quiet, like a well-oiled machine that wouldn’t stop. Like someone with orders.

                _Like Clint had been, wrapped in Loki’s magic, under his power_ -

                Clint shook those thoughts away. Bad morning already, no reason to make it worse. “So what’s it gonna be, soldier? Shoot me, and I’ll rip that metal arm off your shoulder and make new arrowheads from whatever it’s made of.”

                “Maybe you shouldn’t threaten the man who has the gun,” murmured the lighthouse keeper, and said, louder, “Why don’t we settle down, have some nice breakfast?”

                “Okay,” said Clint. “Stand down, soldier. I want some real food.” He turned to the lighthouse keeper. “You have real food, right, man? ‘Cause seriously, these granola bars aren’t gonna cut it.” He kept an eye on the dark-haired man, and was surprised when the gun was lowered to his side. “Yeah, that’s it. Let’s keep the killing and nastiness until after we eat, yeah? Deal?”

                “Real food,” echoed the dark-haired man, his first words since entering the lighthouse. He said something else, in Russian, and Clint repeated it in English, for the lighthouse keeper.

                “’Make food or you die.’ Cute, huh? Hope you got more than granola hidden out here.” Clint eyed the man with the gun, and the lighthouse keeper puttered around the kitchen, muttering about insolent hooligans and the state of the country. It was meaningless noise, relaxing, but Clint couldn’t let his guard down, not with a very dangerous-looking fellow standing across the room from him. And where the hell was Natasha? She’d gone on a mission with Captain America, deep undercover, but _their_ plan, hers and Clint’s, had been to meet up at the lighthouse at this assigned date and time. She was late.

                Natasha Romanov was never late.

                “I wasn’t expecting guests,” said the old man, and he set three steaming plates of sausages and eggs on the table. “I have toast, as well. Would you like some toast?”

                Clint should have been watching him, making sure he hadn’t poisoned the food. The man with the gun made no move towards the meal, and the lighthouse keeper sighed, and sat down at the table, picking up his fork.

                “I,” he said with a quivering finality, “am going to eat my breakfast. You two boys may eat, if you still want it, but I’ll be very disappointed if I have to feed all this to the seagulls. This! Half a week’s meals! Shameful!” And he dug into his meal with gusto.

                Clint shrugged, and sat down at the table. Natasha would come, and she would help him deal with this mess. Clint was hungry, so he would eat.

                And he did. He ate nearly half his eggs before he realized that the dark-haired man hadn’t moved, hadn’t touched the meal. “You not hungry?” asked Clint. “Eat. You look like hell warmed over.” Because he did. The man with the gun had battle-torn armor on under his dirty hoodie jacket, and three-day beard certainly didn’t lend him an air of well-being. Whoever this guy was, he was armed, dangerous, and probably had a few screws loose, along with the rest of the world.

                “Who are you boys, anyway?” asked the lighthouse keeper, as the man with the gun finally – finally! – sat down and took up the fork in his metal hand. “You one of those HYDRA folks, all up for knocking the world to its knees?”

                There was an audible click, and Clint froze, fork inches from his open mouth. The dark-haired man was on his feet, the chair shoved back, the gun raised and leveled on the old man. “HYDRA?” said the man with the gun.

                “No, no, not me,” said the lighthouse keeper. “I’m just the guy who pulls the horn when the fog rolls in. I don’t get caught up in those webs that those organizations weave, no, not me. Do you want that toast?”

                “Just to be clear,” said Clint, holding perfectly still when the gun swung his way, “I’m not HYDRA, either. But the question is, are _you_?”

                The gun lowered, slowly. But steady. Perfectly steady. “No,” said the dark-haired man.

                “Great,” said Clint, and turned to the old man again. “I’ll take that toast, if you’re making it.”

                “Did you save me anything?” asked Natasha, draped over Clint’s shoulder with languid grace, pressing a chaste kiss to his eyebrow. Her eyes were on the gun, which was up again, and Clint just wanted to eat his breakfast in _peace_ and for heaven’s sake, was that too much to ask?

                “There’s toast,” said Clint, and shoved his forkful of sausage and eggs in his mouth. As he had suspected, Natasha whisked his plate away and plucked the empty fork from his fingers, and he sighed. “Really, Nat? Really?”

                “You pick odd company,” she said, slicing the remaining sausage into neat, precise pieces. “I am not a threat, Barnes.”

                “Where is he?” asked the dark-haired man, and Clint stared at him, because _Barnes_? Natasha shrugged, and speared a slice of sausage onto the fork, followed by a piece of egg.

                “He’s on the boat,” she said.

                “Who’s on the boat?” asked Clint.

                Natasha popped the food into her mouth and smiled at him as she chewed, silent. “Steve,” said the dark-haired man, _Barnes_.

                “Hold up,” said Clint. “Steve? Steve Rogers? Barnes? _Bucky_ Barnes?”

                “Don’t call me that,” said the man with the gun, which was still leveled on Natasha, as she calmly ate _Clint’s_ breakfast.

                “Unreal,” said Clint. “I’m dreaming, right? I never rolled out of bed this morning, I’m dreaming.”

                “He’s waiting for you,” said Natasha, to Barnes, who wavered, for the first time. “He’ll always wait for you.”

                “Stop following me,” said Barnes.

                Natasha shrugged again. “He’ll stop following you when you stop running.”

                “I’m really interested in that toast,” said Clint to the lighthouse keeper, who had serenely eaten his breakfast as if there weren’t three superassassins in his kitchen – because if Barnes wasn’t an assassin, then he was one helluva jacked up soldier – and Clint was really quite done with this dream, and he would like to wake up, now.

                “He’s on the boat?” said Barnes, and the lighthouse keeper popped bread into the toaster – where had he hidden all that food? – and Natasha nodded, once.

                “Try not to kill him this time,” was all she said, but it was just to Barnes’ retreating back as the dark-haired man left the room, supposedly for the boat. Maybe running from it. Clint didn’t know. All Clint knew is that he was obviously dreaming, but there was toast, so that was okay. Dreams with toast always ended well.

                “I’m not going to ask,” said Clint, accepting the toast and butter from the old man. “And I certainly won’t ask about the hair.”

                “You don’t like it?” Natasha tilted her head in question, the long, straight strands falling loose. Clint shrugged.

                “You’re cuter with curls,” was all he said, and she swiped his toast in retaliation.

 

\--

 

The lighthouse keeper sighed, viewing his empty cupboards. The empty plates were stacked in the sink, waiting to be washed, and his unexpected guests were gone, along with their boat and the fog. The old man smiled, and he felt younger, much younger.

                “That was fun,” said Loki. “A lot of fun. I wonder what I could do with a soldier like that, malleable to my will...?”

**Author's Note:**

> Easter egg for MARVEL's sake.  
>  ~~I need to stop playing with these characters and actually go work on useful things oops~~  
>  We spent a lot of time listening to Tom Waits this semester, so the title comes from a song of the same name. There's no real connection, save food and miscommunication.


End file.
